The boy was not a prince at first.

Or rather, the Fairy Tale Kingdom never had princes to begin with—if everything unfolding in this world were a fairy tale, then this was one without a prince.

He was merely a servant.

In the royal palace, the king’s child would likely become the next king; the cook’s child would probably grow up to be a cook; and naturally, a servant’s child would become a servant too.

His father had been a palace servant. After his passing, the boy inherited the role—but due to his youth, he was shunned by the other servants. Frail and unfit for heavy labor, he was assigned to deliver meals daily to the little princess imprisoned in the tower.

Children are naturally curious, and he was no exception.

Some claimed she was the most beautiful, most adorable girl in the entire Fairy Tale Kingdom. Others scoffed: *If she were truly that lovely, why lock her away?* Perhaps she was a monster—three heads, six arms, green-faced, fanged, covered in black fur.

Yet the boy always believed the first version. Before his first delivery, he pestered a familiar uncle: *What does she really look like?*

The uncle described her: hair black and smooth as satin, eyes sparkling like stars, lips soft as flower petals, and a voice—the most melodious in the Fairy Tale Kingdom—like a gentle mountain spring.

The boy listened quietly, imagining her face, eagerly awaiting his turn.

Soon, he was assigned the duty. Yet for nearly half a year, he never saw her.

A rope and basket hung from the tower. He’d place the meal inside; she’d pull it up.

*So she really is a monster,* some whispered. *The king fears her but won’t kill her—so he sealed her away.*

No.

There was still one passage… the basket.

One day, a wild thought struck him: *What if I squeeze inside? She’ll pull me up too.*

But he dismissed it. *She’s even younger than me. How could she haul me up?*

He abandoned the fantasy.

Still, one day, heart pounding, he slipped a small note into the basket—a clumsy, unrhymed poem. He regretted it instantly. *She’ll toss it. Or not even see it.*

The next day, trembling as he delivered the meal, he found a reply.

*Your poem was fun. Thank you for the greeting.*

Joy flooded him. He stayed happy all day, dared not share it, and that night clutched the note while sleeping—a smile lingering on his lips.

Thus began their silent correspondence.

He shared palace gossip: someone insisting a rabbit was a donkey; a wolf caught disguised as a granny; sailors finding a land where people were tiny as beans. The servants, flattered by his interest, gladly fed him tales.

In return, she described her tower view: the queen whispering to her mirror; two shifty-eyed tailors arriving; a servant punished for a mistake.

For nearly a year, they exchanged words through folded paper.

Then one day, her note read: *Come up.*

Stunned, nervous, he asked how.

*Just climb in the basket and stay still. I’ll pull you up.*

He did. Tugged the rope.

Hoisted upward, he wondered: *Will she scorn me like the queen?*

But the moment he saw her—every worry vanished.

Yes. Just as the uncle said.

Satin-black hair. Starlit eyes. Petal-soft lips. A voice like flowing water.

She smiled. “So… you’re the one sending the notes?”

His face burned crimson. He nodded, mute and earnest.

They spent the whole afternoon together—telling stories, sharing cake, playing games, swinging their legs on the tower’s edge as the sun dipped below the horizon.

To this day, he believes it was the happiest afternoon of his life.

Before leaving, she made a pinky promise with a smile: *Visit often.*

He promised.

And he did.

Once, he brought a chess set. He lost every game—but laughed the whole time.

Yet each farewell held a flicker: a fleeting, heart-wrenching loneliness in her eyes… quickly masked by a smile as she waved him down.

*She’s so alone.*

He vowed to stay longer.

Then he heard the prophecy.

Folklore? Or a witch’s crystal-ball truth? Either way: the king must keep the princess locked away. One day, a dragon would descend, carry her off—and a foreign prince would arrive, slay the beast, rescue her, and live happily ever after.

The boy believed it.

*Witches don’t lie. Not about this.*

He worried.

Dragons weren’t all evil… but a kind one wouldn’t abduct her. The palace reinforced its walls—but he knew: the dragon would break through.

What could *he* do?

A mortal couldn’t fight a dragon. Only a god-blessed hero could.

And he? Just a meal-delivering servant. Powerless.

He couldn’t stop the dragon.

He couldn’t stop the prince.

A servant and a prince—earth and sky. A forgotten side character versus the destined hero.

In stories, princesses marry princes.

But the prince wouldn’t make her happy.

She didn’t want the dragon. Or the prince.

She wanted freedom.

Every time he left, he saw it: the quiet envy, the deep loneliness etched in her gaze.

*Why?* he thought.

*Why lock her away for a prophecy? Why let a dragon terrify her? Why must some arrogant prince “save” her—ignoring what she truly wants?*

All she wanted… was freedom.

Then it sprouted. Grew. Bloomed in an instant.

*“Why… can’t I be the prince?”*

Ambition coiled like seaweed, swallowing his thoughts.

He began to plan.

In the palace library, he drank knowledge like a dry sponge.

He trained his body. Enlisted in the kingdom’s expedition fleet.

He told her he might be gone a long time.

She smiled through sadness. “Be safe.”

His chest ached—but he left anyway.

The witch meddled. The king was blind. The dragon loomed.

None cared what *she* wanted.

But he did.

He would give her freedom.

He sailed away. Drifted years across stormy seas.

And when he finally returned…

People would call him—

…the prince from a foreign land.

[To be continued]